Friday, April 29, 2022

The Nag

 
 

 
 
The Nag


I try to smile at the morning,
even tho it shambles in
unsure of what to do with itself and 
wants advice. "You're all
the same, " I mutter.

Then you come the way you do,
pulling my hair.
"Look at me, look at me,"you say,
even tho you never see a thing 
except what isn't there.

"Do this, do that!" I pry
your centipede legs
off my neck, hundreds of them, each
one shoe'ed 
with crawling demand.

Talk to me," you insist,
adjusting 
your face in the mirror,
deaf as a blue-eyed white cat.
Explosions and tremors
 
make your bed. Rage
and misunderstanding
call you mother.
Peace will
never know you.
 
 
"I am the goat," I say
"who walks alone,"
and turn to ask
the morning
what I can do.


April 2022











posted for dVerse Poets











Images: The Smiling Spider, 1891, © Odilon Redon   Public Domain
‘Soulmate’ © Ksi─Ö┼╝ycolica, via internet  Fair Use

Wednesday, April 27, 2022

Asylum

 
 
 

 
"..Let the doctor and the lawyer do as much as they can.
Let the springtime begin, let the boy become a man.
I have wasted too much time 
just to sing you this sad song..."~James Taylor, 1971 
 
 
 
Asylum
 
 
 
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
 
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft 
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.

They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations, 
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
 
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
and your mother
with the viper between her lips.

I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.

I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.


April 2022





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Inspired by the words of Federico Garcia Lorca,
and a dream.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Madhouse, 1812-1814 © Francisco Goya  Public Domain
Vase with Carnations, 1886, © Vincent Van Gogh    Public Domain 
 

Saturday, April 16, 2022

Wildfire

 

 

 
 
 
 
Wildfire
 
 
 
Time is a wildfire loose in the willows
burning soft-stemmed boughs to hissing smoke.
Their weeping won't save them, or their green hearts,
nor the pleading of oxen, burnt out of their yokes.

It runs its red leg 'cross the suck of the slough
to harvest sheep's breath in its ragged pillows,
to garland the branch with burnt black buds.
Time is a wildfire loose in the willows.

Time races, time flies, time burns the bridges.
It eats church and saloon out of house and hope.
It's tongue licks the moonlight off the moon's mirror
and boils rainy hours to hissing smoke.

Time is a fire, time is a melting
that feeds on the whole and ashes the parts.
Time burns up May-brides into sere widows;
their weeping won't save them, or their green hearts.

And when black-cloud crows show to pick my bones
I'll say come, children come, and don't come slow.
Time's a quick flame, and we are its smoke.
Time was my harness; I'm soon out of its yoke.




April 2022
 
 













 
 posted for Fireblossom 
at The Sunday Muse:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: This poem is in the cascade form(with a few liberties,) which I felt fit in with Housman's general style, tho since it has been invented since his time, of course he never used it.
 
 
 
Images; Landscape Of Ruins And Fires, 1914 © Felix Valloton, manipulated   Public Domain
Wheatfield With Crows, 1890. © Vincent Van Gogh  manipulated,     Public Domain

Thursday, April 14, 2022

Three Tigers

 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 Three Tigers
(a 55)


Three tigers by the sea
waiting for my company,
frightened by the gunner's moon;
three tigers hungry soon.

Three tigers in the millet;
artist, lover and a poet
find their game, make it run,
eat the work when they have done.

Two wet tigers in the storm;
 I laugh and keep the good one warm.
 
 
 
 
 April 2022
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for dVerse Poets
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Images: Dream Caused By The Flight Of A Bee Around A Pomegranate A Second Before Awakening,1941, ©Salvador Dali  Fair Use
Tiger In A Tropical Storm-Surprised, 1891, ©Henri Rousseau  Fair Use
 

Sunday, April 10, 2022

Gifting Of The Birds

 
 

 
 
 Gifting Of The Birds


They say a princess
will have the Fae come to her birth
to make her fate with augury for gifts,
but the peasant dreams in birds
 rainbowed as the sky, as sleek as night,

gathered round her cradle
with a liquid blackbird murmur
with two tumbling raven feathers
with six scarlet cardinal sins,
swarming seven snowy days

with all their gifts and curses, not sure
which to give her, some of this and some of that,
sum of love and losing, morning song
or evening silence, heart of grace,
tongue of willow, green mossflower, desert spine,
 
hard horse apples or sweet blood-oranges
of November moon, all or none of these
before they fly, on to the next accouchement. 
Still from time to time she sees them perching,
come back to check their work

cocking tiny heads aslant,
looking but not telling, never saying
more than a bird might say
about the time that's coming
when all gifts will be opened,

all the curses told.
What will you do at last, 
their bright eyes seem to wink,
with what we gave you,
before you can do no more?
 
 
 
 April 2022





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Birds of Paradise, © Vincente Manansala  Fair Use
Bird in Spectacles, author unknown, via Sunday Muse   Fair Use
 

Friday, April 8, 2022

Aubade Of The Scorpions

 
 

 

 
 
 
 
Aubade Of The Scorpions
 
 
 
At night the little scorpions come down
to watch us playing at our poison kisses
to study from the dustbath where we drown
 
the sting that sinks the deepest when it misses.
I found flowers once where you had touched me;
black poppies sown in moon-distempered hisses.
 
Now the sun is crawling through the ivy,
its dawn a flickered fire burning wishes.
You're a green ghost spitting from a tree;
 
promises float away like silver fishes
and Love's a child who suddenly confesses.
 
 
 
 
 
 
  April 2022









 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 posted for dVerse Poets:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Crustaceans c.1873 ©Raimundo Petraroja    Fair Use
The Evening Gown, 1954, ©Rene Magritte     Fair Use
 

Tuesday, April 5, 2022

Season's Whisper

 
 

 
Season's Whisper
(A Quadrille)
 
 
Birds falter
from the sky. Kapitans cry.
Bodies lie,
blind eyes on streets
rubbed down to bone.
 
Still
the season whispers.
 
Living wings fly,
buds swell like grief unbound.
The wilding wind 
knows nothing
of our long drown.
 
The season whispers.
Life is found.
 
 
April 2022 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 









posted for dVerse Poets:



and 
for earthweals' weekly challenge:














Note: "..Kapitan is a commissioned officer rank ..in..the NATO officers rank system..[adopted by Ukraine,]used to specify commanding officers of company-sized units..."~wikipedia







Images:Detail of Scene in Bucha, Ukraine, April 2, 2022 after Russian retreat, ©Reuters/Zohra Bemsemra, cropped to sepia,  Fair Use
Magnolia buds against March tree canopy, 2016, © joyannjones